


Oh, How Shit Changes

by chucknovak



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Africa by Toto, F/M, Inspired by Music, M/M, bev and mike are good friends, but they're like 21 in this, richie is drunk and sad, so it's cool, sorry - Freeform, there's drinking, this is sad lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 11:28:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13212786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucknovak/pseuds/chucknovak
Summary: Inspired by Louis Tomlinson's song "Miss You."Richie gets drunk while trying to get over Eddie, which ends up having the opposite effect."And all of these thoughts and the feelingsCheers to that if you don’t need themI’ve been checking my phone all eveningSuch a good timeI believe it this time...Oh, how shit changesWe were in love, now we’re strangersWhen I feel it coming up, I just throw it all awayGet another two shots 'cause it doesn’t matter anyway...We’re dancing on tablesAnd I’m off my faceWith all of my peopleAnd it couldn’t get better they sayWe’re singing 'til last callAnd it’s all out of tuneShould be laughing, but there’s something wrongAnd it hits me when the lights go onShit, maybe I miss you..."





	Oh, How Shit Changes

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a link to the song this is based on: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=inZzcTXYowY 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

   Richie’s phone screen is so bright that it’s all he can see when he checks it. The time goes in and out of focus, but even his bleary eyes can tell that there are no new messages. Still, he unlocks the phone and opens his messaging app, as if there’ll be a text he might’ve missed.

   The phone is very suddenly take from his hands, and it takes a moment for his eyes to follow the movement to the disappointed face of his best friend. “Come on, Rich,” Beverly chides him, “no more checking your phone. We’re here to have fun, and you’re not getting any ass over here in the corner.” Richie reaches for his phone, but Bev swiftly tucks it into her back pocket. He smirks.

   “Nothin’ I haven’t touched before,” he jokes, relenting and allowing her to take him by the hand and lead him back into the thick of the party. She has a point; he was here to have fun, to get drunk and forget about all his pain. So god dammit, that’s what he was gonna do. “Ms. Marsh, would you do me th’ honors of taking a shot wi’ me?” he slurs, grabbing a shot glass from the table.

   “It would be my pleasure,” she grins, grabbing a shot glass of her own and filling both glasses to the brim with strawberry lemonade vodka. It’s one of the little extra reasons Richie loves her so much: they have the same taste in alcohol (and no, Richie is not ashamed that he likes his drinks fruity and effective). They clank their drinks together, ignoring the alcohol that slips down their chins and wrists as they knock back the shots. The liquid burns as it slides down Richie’s throat, and he’s too drunk to hide his grimace, but it quickly turns into a grin as Beverly leans into him. “There he is!” she cheers, planting a kiss on his cheek. He loves her, but the kiss burns more than the alcohol. She’s almost the same height as he was when he would kiss Richie like that.

   Richie shakes the thought from his mind, taking a sizeable swig straight from the handle. Bev giggles but places a steadying hand on his arm. “Woah there, I know I encouraged this, but take it easy,” she advises. “You’re not getting any ass if you yak, either.” Richie rolls his eyes, heading for the sound of the music. He immediately recognizes the song, beaming back at Bev as he hops up onto the poor host’s coffee table and begins obnoxiously singing along to a-ha’s “Take on Me,” not giving a shit about butchering the high note. People cheer him on, and a random girl from his English class joins him on the table. She’s giggling as she drunkenly swivels in an attempt to dance with him. However, socks and wood are never a good combination, and she begins to slip. Somehow, miraculously, Richie catches her, and the rest of the party whoops as she smiles coyly up at him. This isn’t really what Richie wants, but he goes with it, figuring that this is what he came for. He keeps his hands on her hips and she doesn’t stop him. She’s somewhat cute. He can’t recall her name in the state he’s in, but that doesn’t stop him from swaying with her. They’re soon joined by two other random bodies on the table, effectively pressing them together. _Fuck it_ , Richie thinks, leaning down and connecting their lips. _Fuck this_. It’s just another sensation. _Fuck him_. It sort of feels like nothing, but maybe that’s just his body going numb. _Fuck me. God, fuck me_ , his mind chants angrily, self-deprecatingly.

   He’s vaguely aware of the song fading out, but the next one that comes on is like a punch to the gut. He pulls away abruptly and is stumbling off the table and out of the room before Toto can start singing to him about echoing drums and other bullshit. He’s back in his old pick-up, the love of his life beaming in the passenger seat as they both scream along to the ‘80s anthem, bass blaring. He’s back in his dorm room, smiling up at the boy who’s studying intently, wondering how he got so lucky as the song played softly from his laptop. He’s at another party just like this one, a short drunk boy dragging him by the wrist to the makeshift dance floor, professing his love for the song as the unmistakable opening plays.

   The sudden flood of memories makes his stomach turn, leading him to the bathroom. Toto blessing the rains down in Africa is a muffled soundtrack that he can barely hear over the sound of his own vomit. Even when he’s done, he just slumps down, his head nestled in his arms, which rest on the edge of the toilet seat. He’s not crying. He will not cry. But when he feels a hand gently resting on his shoulder, his helplessly hopeful heart can’t help but deceive him. “Eds?” he asks, his voice soft and desperate as he turns his head around. Bev’s head of copper curls swirls in front of him.

   “Oh, Rich,” she sighs, empathetic hurt evident in her voice as she sinks to her knees and pulls him into her arms. Now there’s no question that he’s crying. She runs her fingers through his hair, and god, he knows she means well but now he’s _seeing_ him and smelling him and hearing his voice in his ear, swearing he’ll “never let that no-good son of a bitch lay a hand on you again.” It’s like it’s his hands running through his hair, and the one thing that always calmed him down is now tearing him apart. He feels so empty, like his chest is a hollow cavern caving in on itself.

   Shit.

   He’d been managing. He had just started thinking that he could see himself moving on some day, like, for real. But he’s not over it; he misses him just as much as the first days without him.

   The world moves around him, a familiar deep voice saying things he can’t hear. Cold. God, he’s so fucking cold, where’s his jacket? Oh, right, he gave it to Eddie. But he doesn’t know where Eddie is, and now he’s freaking out. “Eds?” he calls weakly, the name soggy on his tongue. His tears are warm on his frigid cheeks as he pats his pockets down for the spare inhaler he keeps in his back pocket. His heart sinks as he realizes it’s not there. “I’m sorry,” he sobs, so disappointed in himself for letting him down again. Eddie is the love of his life, and he had lost his fucking inhaler, he doesn’t even know where he is. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers pathetically to a memory of big brown eyes and soft, neatly parted hair. He repeats it into the strong chest that he rolls his face into, then he’s repeating it into cold leather, and then into his pillow.

   His phone lights up from his bedside table, and his heart lurches, his hand following sluggishly toward it. _Eds_ , his heart whispers, but it’s just a Facebook notification. He slumps over, struggling to find his way to his text conversation with Eddie. A strong hand slips the phone out of his nearly-slack, sheet-white fingers. “Hey,” Mike murmurs, gently pulling the covers over Richie’s trembling frame and removing his glasses. “You should get some rest. I’ll be right here in the morning if you want to talk about it.”

   Richie falls asleep on a wet pillow and dreams of soft lips that taste like mint, of pastel polo shirts that smell like dryer sheets and rubbing alcohol. As promised, Mike is sitting on Richie’s floor reading when the lankier boy opens his eyes the next morning. Mike gives him a soft smile. He rolls over. He doesn’t want to talk about it.


End file.
